


Cozy

by sheepybaa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepybaa/pseuds/sheepybaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's bitterly cold outside, but all Alfred feels when he looks at Ivan is warm.  </i>
</p><p>College/University AU.  Ivan and Alfred meet in a rush, by total chance, in the middle of winter term.  Both of them are shocked by how attracted they are to the other.  The rest is inevitable, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cozy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a fic I posted a long, LONG time ago on ff.net. The concept is roughly the same, but my characterization of both Alfred and Ivan has changed drastically from what it was years ago, so don't bother seeking the original out: the only thing they share is the premise. 
> 
> I'll confess, I've somewhat fallen off the Hetalia bandwagon, but every once in a while, I do still get a glimmer of inspiration for this fic. I'm terribly attached to it. Updates are gonna be slow as molasses, but they do happen--if I decide to abandon this fic, I'll announce it in the notes and description. 
> 
> As always, thank you very much for reading.

Alfred F. Jones, college sophomore, hated everything. 

It was a cold and blustery day in the city, the kind of day where the wind blows through you no matter how thick your coat is, forcing you to squint to keep your eyes from drying out; the kind of day where the snow coating the ground has all frozen over the night before, and any portion of the sidewalk that wasn't flawlessly plowed is now slick as an ice rink.  And it was stupid, _stupid_ that Alfred had been forced to go out in this shitfest, stupid that he had to walk 5 blocks in the bitter cold just to get to one stinking class--and of course, of _course_ the damn wind, which had finally settled down, had suddenly picked up again as soon as he was leaving the music building.  It's as if the instant he shoved open the side entrance door, Mother Nature sat up and was like _hey, Alfred’s gracing me with his presence; why don't I fuck him over, just for shits and giggles?_  

As he hurried down the sidewalk, Alfred stepped viciously on a half-dead plant peeking through the snow.  Take that, Mother Nature.  

And furthermore, _fuck_ whoever had decided to hold class today.  Yeah, Alfred knew it was the Dean, or whoever the fuck authorized campus operations; he didn’t know or care how it worked, and frankly wasn't interested in knowing.  All he knew was that he was going to find them and cut them if the school kept holding class in this wind chill; did nobody consider the upperclassmen living off campus?  Because really.  They were trying to keep up with the snowfall, but there just weren't enough plows to keep it all from freezing over and turning the maze around campus into a massive death trap; in some places, Alfred's boots weren’t even high enough to wade through this shit without taking on powder.  Fucking hire more people to plow the sidewalks; Jesus. 

“Who the hell do I have to fuck to get classes cancelled?” Alfred complained loudly after he finally kicked in the door to the downstairs entryway. 

“Welcome home, Alfred,” Matthew called drily from their upstairs apartment, ignoring his question as usual.  Alfred grunted and stripped off his sodden winterwear, hanging it all on the wall hooks to dry before he began tromping up the stairs.  He stomped heavily on the carpet liners, partially because his legs felt like wood, and partially to try and restore some circulation to everything below his ankles. As he ascended, a door into the downstairs hall opened. 

“Stop stomping your sodding great feet, Jones!” Arthur yelled from below just as Alfred reached the upstairs landing. “Those of us in the shop would bloody well appreciate your consideration!”

Alfred ignored Arthur and threw himself on the couch, next to his brother.  Matthew, who had _not_ had class today, was working on a paper or some other boring academic shit, tapping away at his laptop before a spread of papers on the coffee table.  Alfred considered all of this with disgruntled, frozen concentration, then shoved his chilly feet beneath the warmth of Matthew's thigh.  His brother gave a jolt, hands jerking from their typing, then looked up with a wrinkle in his nose. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I want hot chocolate," Alfred demanded, reaching to pull the throw blanket over himself. "It’s colder than Satan’s asscrack out there.”

Matthew paused at this and lifted his eyes heavenward, as if praying to an unseen force for composure. It was a familiar image. “Then go to the kitchen and make it yourself,” his brother said to Alfred finally, with the even, thinly maintained patience of someone carefully explaining something obvious to a two-year-old. 

“But it’s better when _you_ make it, Matt,” Alfred whined. 

Matthew stared at Alfred's lump beneath the blankets for a long, long moment.  Then, with a long-suffering air, he sighed very loudly—meaning Alfred had won.  Alfred grinned beneath the throw as Matthew closed his laptop and rose from the couch, shoving Alfred's feet irritably as he went. 

“If you put cool whip in it I'll love you forever!” Alfred called after him, stretching and shoving himself further into Matthew's warm spot.  His brother's responding grumbles were lost in the fuzzy upholstery of the couch as Alfred burrowed into the blankets, wiggling his way deeper until he was thoroughly buried in the crack between the cushions.  _Perfect._   Now, with class over, Alfred could concentrate on warming up and relax; he didn’t need to worry yet about the journal that was due tomorrow for Music 210, or the take-home test waiting on the desk in his room.  Right now, the blanket was soft, and Alfred could feel even his stocking feet growing warm. Just for a moment, with the sounds of Matthew puttering around in the kitchen echoing through the landing, Alfred closed his eyes. 

 

 

 

“Hey,” Matthew's voice said, piercing the thin veil of sleep. Alfred came to with a hand shaking his leg and blinked groggily behind his glasses.  

“If you're gonna ask me to make you hot chocolate, don’t curl up for a nap in my workspace like five seconds after,” Matthew was saying as Alfred woke. Alfred rose slowly to a sitting position, and his brother wordlessly offered him a large, blue mug. Alfred took it automatically. 

He blinked at it as Matthew walked away, cobwebs of sleep falling slowly away from his brain as the world came back into focus.  His glasses sat askew on his face, and Alfred reached up and adjusted them carefully before squeezing his eyes shut and stretched, mindful of the mug in his hand.  “Time 's'it?” he asked. 

By the coffee table, Matthew looked up from where he was rearranging his papers and glanced at his watch. “Half past ten,” his brother said, immediately going back to his work. On the couch, Alfred shoved a hand beneath his glasses and swore, wiping the sleep from his eyes hastily before he rose too quickly from the couch, barely remembering the mug in his hand in time. He lifted his other hand to steady it, grateful nothing had spilled, and raised it to his lips to chug a healthy mouthful, coughing when the scalding liquid burned his throat. 

“Fuck, that's hot,” Alfred swore as he hurried across the room, as fast as he could without making a mess of himself or the apartment. The dizziness he felt as he stumbled down the hall told him he'd need to take a longer nap, later; he had that dumb-ass fucking Mozart paper or whatever to write, after his shift.  For now, though, he needed to get his ass in gear, quickly, and get himself ready to go make some money.  He had a shift downstairs at Arthur's in ten. 

"Time to go be un-scowly so Arthur will actually sell something,” Alfred muttered to himself as he set the hot chocolate on his desk. 

Going through the motions, Alfred stripped off his damp winter clothes and changed into the coffee shop's tight-fitting uniform, sneaking sips from the mug as he went.  As Alfred was an expert in doing things quickly due to running short on time, within minutes he was doing up the last button on his shirt and reaching down to tuck it into his pants, watching in the mirror to ensure there were no wrinkles--Arthur was a stickler about that sort of thing. As he turned, he found himself wondering--not for the first time--just how much Francis had had to do with the design of the uniform.  The pants, especially, seemed out of line with Arthur's fashion sense, slim-cut, well-fitted dark wash jeans that, to be fair, made everyone's ass look great (especially Alfred's).  He admired himself in the mirror while he pulled on his dress socks, and ran a hasty hand through his bedhead before he left the room.  He barely remembered to grab the mug on his way out. 

“I've said it before, but I'm still ninety percent sure Francis is responsible for these ass-huggers,” Alfred declared as he hurried back through the apartment, still running panicked, self-conscious hands over his clothing and hair.  Before he left, he stopped by the armchair, where Matthew had settled himself into a new work station, and leaned over into his brother's space.  

“My breath smell okay?” Alfred asked quickly, then breathed out heavily before Matthew could pull away. 

Matthew's face twisted, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. “Ugh, god; you’re fucking disgusting, Al--yes, it smells _fine_. Get out of here, already.”

“Sweet, thanks,” Alfred said, clapping a grateful hand on Matthew's shoulder before he headed over to the stairs. “Alright, I'm off.”

“Don’t kill yourself on the way down,” Matthew called warningly as Alfred hurried his way to the shop, thumping his feet obnoxiously just to hear Arthur’s muffled exclamations of hatred and rage before he made it to the ground floor. 

“Do you pride yourself on being a berk? Do you get off on it?” Arthur seethed angrily at Alfred as he entered the back room. “Or did you just eat too much sand as a kid?” 

“What the hell would that have to do with it?” Alfred asked, laughing as he grabbed an apron off its hook, tossing it on and tying it in record fashion. He stepped out behind the counter and clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder in greeting, grinning as the Englishman turned from whatever he was doing and directed all of the intense, quivering malice that festered in his very soul out of his eyes and right at Alfred.  Alfred often thought that if Arthur were a dog, he would be a Chihuahua: 50% rage, 50% tremble. 

“I was making a _point,_ ” Arthur seethed, as, much to Alfred’s amusement, the trembling commenced.  “English major?  You know, making a _decent argument,_ which, ah yes, you know nothing about, because you hardly ever bother setting foot outside the bloody music building?” 

Alfred shrugged as he washed his hands in the tiny front room sink and made a noncommittal noise. “Yeah, whatever.”  He ignored Arthur’s _don’t-ignore-me_ s and stepped behind the register, smiling at Francis as they exchanged places. "Morning, Francis." The shop had only been open an hour, but it looked like today had already been a good day for sales: the beans in the machine were running low, and the pastries in the glass case were in good need of restocking.  Alfred supposed that explained Arthur’s good mood. 

Then, the bell to the shop door jingled, and everyone behind the perked up.  Even Arthur managed to put something resembling a pleasant expression on his face. Alfred (as the only one besides Mattie with any fucking _normal_ social skills, making one or both of them the _de facto_ face of the shop) smiled sunnily.  “Hello! Welcome to Kirkland.”

 

 

 

When the day was finally over, and the last, godforsaken customers had finally managed to drag themselves out the door, Alfred snagged the shop keys and vaulted over the counter with all the speed and majesty of something really speedy and majestic (he was tired, and coming up with good metaphors was a job for English majors like Arthur). 

“I got it!” he called before either of his co-workers could move, keys jingling as he swung them up and into his fist. His dress shoes squeaked on the hardwood as he crossed to the door, flipping through the obnoxiously British key-ring as he went.  The key to the front hung between a picture of the Beatles' _Abbey Road_ album cover, and a tiny scale replica of Big Ben. 

“Well, how far past close are we this time, Francis?” Alfred asked as he lifted the key and locked the shop up for the night. 

“A new record,” the Frenchman called back drolly as he wiped down the pastry case: “One whole hour. It’s as if they think we are a library, or God forbid, a Starbucks.” 

Alfred laughed as he went through the motions, flipping the open sign, letting all the blinds down, and reaching out to grab any trash he saw sitting on the window seats.  “God, people can be such jackasses, am I right?”

“Oh, piss off, you two; they can stay however long they like if they keep drinking their bloody weight in coffee,” Arthur snapped as he returned, carrying out water and dishrags from the back. “Now grab a rag and get cleaning.”

Alfred grinned nervously, throwing his hands up as he edged carefully behind the counter and towards the back, stooping to hang the keys back up and toss the trash in the garbage can as he went.  “Sorry, bro; I really can’t. I already shouldn't'a stayed past close; there's this huge paper I gotta write tonight for 231 tonight, you know how it is.”

“If you leave, your share of the tip jar is forfeit,” Arthur threatened flatly, eyes burning holes through Alfred’s poor skull as he handed down the ultimatum.  _Jesus._   Alfred glanced, momentarily torn, at the overflowing tip jar. That had all been his work, today; he'd been on the counter since ten in the morning, making small talk and cracking jokes to brighten up people's days. He'd _earned_ those tips, every one of them. 

However, Alfred hadn't been lying when he'd said he _needed_ to work on a paper--there would be no other good opportunities this week, and he'd already fucked up by leaving it until now, when he could barely fit it into his schedule. It was thirty percent of his grade, and at this point, there was already a chance it might not even be a _good_ paper. 

Despite the tip jar, and Arthur's venomous eyes staring him down, Alfred had no other choice. Before he answered, though, Alfred untied his apron and dropped it on the counter as a sacrificial offering--if he was lucky, Arthur would attack it first, thereby giving Alfred enough time to escape to the relative safety of the apartment.  

“Fine by me,” he then agreed quickly, and darted past Arthur through the doorway and to the hall before Arthur could take the offer back.  A volley of screeched curses and Francis’ laughter followed Alfred out of the shop and up the stairs. He paused when he reached the upstairs landing, slightly out of breath. 

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just fire you,” Matthew offered blandly. He'd returned to the couch and was now sprawled greedily over the entire thing in a manner obviously intended to keep Alfred from joining him.  Whatever.  Alfred rolled his eyes and sat in the armchair instead, sighing at the relief after his long day. 

“Because, Matthew, _clearly_ it's because Arthur secretly loves me,” Alfred said conspiratorially, toeing off his shoes carefully. He put his tired feet up on the coffee table, mildly disturbing one of Matthew's piles of papers, and sighed in relief before continuing. “Unfortunately, the pits of flaming hatred burning within his heart keep him from consciously recognizing it. Subconsciously, though, it’s there. If you just look hard enough, you can see it in his eyes,” Alfred said, leaning forward and gesturing to his own eyes theatrically. 

“Uh- _huh,_ ” Matthew said, taking in Alfred's dramatic expression and looking supremely unimpressed. He reached out and re-adjusted the disturbed stack of papers, then returned his attention to whatever was on his laptop, eyes glazing over in concentration. 

"Seriously, though, he probably keeps me around because I'm normal," Alfred added. Matthew snorted. 

"No, really," Alfred said, though he knew Matthew wasn't fully listening. "Arthur is a human crucible, and Francis is incapable of greeting someone without hitting on them or leering at their genitalia." That one got a chuckle, and Alfred leaned back, satisfied he'd made his point. "Honestly, if the two of us weren't working there, I'm convinced they'd go out of business. I'd give it three months, max, before somebody gets assaulted." 

"There was that time I missed a shift and Arthur ripped the handle off the cappuccino maker in rage," Matthew mused, frowning at something on his screen as he tapped away at his keyboard. The weird, pinched look he got on his face was too beautiful, Alfred couldn't help it: he lifted his phone subtly and covertly snapped a photo, tapped a couple buttons, and finally put his phone away with a smirk. 

Alfred hid his expression with his hand as his brother's phone buzzed on the couch beside him.  Matthew picked it up and swiped his thumb across the screen absently, eyes flickering briefly from his laptop to his phone. His brow creased in momentary confusion, then he rolled his eyes with a sound of disgust and threw his phone at the other end of the couch, shooting Alfred a glare. “God, stop sending me SnapChats of myself, you fucking weirdo.”

“If you stop looking vaguely constipated when you work, I will,” Alfred replied, laughing into his hand.  He leaned back into his chair with a yawn, then frowned to himself, thinking.  “Let's see...tomorrooow iiis...what, Friday?” he asked no one in particular, staring distantly into the air. 

“Yes, Alfred,” Matthew said benevolently, "Tomorrow's Friday."  Alfred ignored the condescension in his tone, as always, and got up to go get a snack before he started to work on his paper.  For Alfred, who'd been reliably informed he had an oral fixation, working without a snack was a sin, and a fucking travesty besides.  Too bad there wasn’t any substantial food in the house, because, oh yeah: they were poor-ass undergrads.  But oh sweet, merciful Jesus—

“Mattie, you’re a real champ,” Alfred called gratefully as he unearthed a pack of gummy bears from the snack drawer.  Somewhere in the living room, Matthew made a smug noise probably meant to assert his adulthood, or superiority, or dominance, or whatever.  Cute.  Alfred stuck a mug of apple cider into the microwave and, while it droned steadily, made himself a peanut butter sandwich. 

Finally, with food in hand, he retreated to his room.  It was time to get his shit together, even if getting your shit together was boring as hell.  Alfred sat down, arranging his food at his desk, cracked his neck, and opened his laptop.  He popped open the bag of gummy bears, and loaded up JSTOR. Time to get to work. 

 

 

 

It was 8 AM on a Friday, and Ivan was late. 

Damn Toris for keeping him awake--he and his stupid Polish boyfriend, both.  Ivan could hardly begrudge them their happiness, but God, did they have to be so _loud_ about it?  Ivan was becoming convinced that Felix hated him, and only did it out of spite--after all, they were never nearly so loud on nights when Ivan wasn’t working or didn’t have class the next day.  Locking the door behind him, Ivan hurried to the end of the hall and descended the stairs rapidly, still winding his muffler around his neck. 

Annoying, annoying, _annoying_.  The door outside, as it was wont to do, stuck infuriatingly in the frame on his way out, forcing Ivan to pause and yank it forcibly closed.  He really didn’t have the time, however, and he knew it as he clattered down the walkway that wrapped around the side of his building and onto the sidewalk. 

Goddamned, stupid eight o’ clocks; it was an obscenely early time to be holding a physical education class, anyway, especially one meant for twenty-year-olds.  Studies showed not only that young adults needed nine to ten hours of sleep, on average, but also that they tended to operate best at hours later in the day. At this rate, Ivan wasn’t even going to have enough time to print out his paper--

“WHOA!”

Ivan, surprised, felt the wind go out of him as he collided, full-speed, into another body on the sidewalk. They both went clattering to the pavement, and books and papers spilled from their bags, scattering on the ground. 

“Oh my god, I’m _so_ sorry man,” the other guy--clearly American--said, voice panicked as Ivan righted himself with a still spinning head.  “I wasn't looking, I didn’t even think; I just stepped right out--”

“It’s fine, really, it’s really fine,” Ivan said hastily, already scrambling to pull his papers together. His accent bled through more than normal as he shoved things into his bag.  Shit, shit, son of a _bitch_ \-- “I'm in a rush; I wasn't looking--”

“No, you have places to be; it was my bad,” the blonde guy insisted, ignoring his own things to help Ivan gather his, instead.  _Considerate,_ Ivan managed to think, frantic as he was. 

He stood quickly when they finished, and the American guy rose with him.  Ivan turned to bid him a hasty farewell, and stopped. The polite, hurried words dropped from his tongue, and Ivan blinked, nonplussed.  

In the panic of being late, Ivan hadn't really been _seeing_ the guy. His mind hadn't absorbed much beyond _blonde, male,_ and _American_. However, now that Ivan stopped and actually _looked_ at him, he unexpectedly found himself struck by just how _attractive_ he was.  

He was university-age, as well, and his body language said clearly that he was concerned, wiping his hands nervously on his jeans and looking up at Ivan through a pair of glasses and thick, blonde eyelashes.  He seemed to have an oral fixation, if the way he was worriedly chewing his lip red was any indication, and his eyes were a vibrant, strikingly pretty shade of blue.  Without thinking, Ivan’s eyes flickered over his body appreciatively.  Even beneath the coat, it was clear he was well-built, too--a full foot shorter than Ivan, sure, but clearly strong.  Despite the dimness of the winter sun, a smattering of faded freckles was still barely visible on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

It was a pause of only a moment, but Ivan re-focused and chided himself all the same. He couldn’t stop for long--he was already late.  Once he was back, Ivan reached out to rest a hand on the other man’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for your help,” Ivan said sincerely.  He patted the guy in what he hoped was a friendly manner before hurrying off towards campus, shouldering his duffel bag and swallowing under his muffler.  As he walked, Ivan's palm felt warm under his glove. His fingers, still tingling from the contact, twitched.

 

 

 

Alfred, surrounded by his scattered papers, stood dumbly on the sidewalk.

Holy shit. 

Holy _shit._   What the actual fuck.  He stood there staring after the stranger for several seconds after he'd passed out of sight, blinking owlishly, and eventually reached up to touch his own shoulder in a daze. Feeling blindsided, Alfred sucked in a breath.  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of a strange sensation of dizziness--they hadn't knocked heads, so why did he feel _dizzy_ \--and finally knelt down to gather up his stuff from the sidewalk. 

He collected the papers and shoved them in his backpack with unseeing eyes, and as he shoved the last of them into the largest pocket, Alfred's hands faltered. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathed, pressing a hand to his pounding heart.  Rocking back, Alfred sat back on the cold stoop of his building and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.  Fortunately, he didn't have class until nine, but he had to catch his breath before then. He didn't have any unexcused absences left in 210, and he had to turn in that journal, besides.  But great goddamn _holy fucking shit_ \--it had been so, so long since Alfred had been attracted to someone so strongly, the surge of lust was incredibly hard to ignore. 

The guy’s eyes had been purple.  Holy _shit_. 

As a happily, openly bisexual guy, Alfred usually leaned towards women--it was somewhere between a sixty-forty or seventy-thirty women-to-men ratio, as far as general attraction was concerned. There were things he liked and didn't like in different people, same as anyone else, but one thing Alfred had always had a thing for was _really tall guys_.  

He went over the guy’s body in his mind.  Tall, platinum blonde, and broad-shouldered--he was at _least_ six foot four, and when they'd run into each other, Alfred had felt like he was hit by a wall. He hadn't felt a single inch of the guy's body that wasn't muscle. Guy that big, he could probably pick Alfred up and throw him over his shoulder no problem, carry him around like he weighed nothing.  He could throw Alfred on the bed, loom over him and pin him down--

 _Jesus fucking Christ;_ Alfred needed to get inside before his own fantasies made him unfit for public consumption. Grabbing hastily at his backpack, Alfred scrambled up and hurried back inside, sprinting up the stairs two at a time and tossing his backpack carelessly on the landing in the empty apartment.  He had to take care of this and get it out of his system before he went to class.  He paused with one hand on the back of the couch, panting, and pushed the other down over his growing erection.  His skin felt hot, arousal pooling low in his body.  Alfred bit his lip and suppressed a groan.  _Shit._  

Fervently thanking God for Matthew's eight AM lab, Alfred stumbled down the hallway and into his room, shoving the door closed behind him.  He fumbled awkwardly with his coat; after several seconds he finally wrenched it off his shoulders, dropping it carelessly onto the hardwood floor and reaching immediately for his belt.  He yanked it open and struggled to open his jeans, fingers hot and clumsy on his fly. God, come on, come _on_ \--

Alfred released a shuddering breath of relief as he shoved his pants and boxer briefs off of his cock, freeing his erection.  The air, warm as it was from the heater, felt so good on his skin, cool compared to the fevered heat of his body.  Alfred licked his palm hastily, then, biting his lip and bracing the other against the door, he wrapped his hand firmly around his dick and squeezed.  The sensation made him shiver, the jolt of pleasure turning his thoughts fuzzy.  Slowly, breathing heavily, he began to move his fist, up and down, grip tight as he stroked firmly over his dick.  Soon Alfred's knees felt weak, and he forced himself to unclench the tight, jumping muscles in his abdomen and sit, shirt sliding up his back as he slid down the door. Alfred hit the floor hard, and his ass slid around unsteadily on the slippery lining of his coat, forcing Alfred to brace his feet against the floor to stay in place.  He was far enough gone that he didn’t much care. 

He closed his eyes, panting, and Alfred began to imagine that a different hand was touching him--big, Alfred imagined, with long, clever fingers.  He saw large, broad shoulders hovering over him, caging him in, heard a lilting voice whisper filthy promises in heavy, accented English.  A strangled noise escaped from Alfred's throat as he swiped a thumb over the head of his dick, pressed firmly at the ridge on the downstroke and felt every muscle in his body twitch heavily in reaction.  _God_. 

God, but it wasn’t quite enough.  He needed _more_.  Alfred brought a hand up and slid two fingers into his mouth, thoroughly coating them with saliva.  He arched away from the door and reached into the space, shoving his spit-slick fingers down the back of his briefs.  Breathing heavily, he stroked between his cheeks, just brushing them over his entrance, and panted.  God, the tease of it was incredible.  Alfred pictured pale hands doing this, squeezing over his ass, slick fingers slipping into the crack, teasing. 

Alfred groaned.  His hand on his dick slowed as he lifted his hips and pressed a finger against his entrance, breath hitching, and breached the tight ring of muscle to work a finger in.  Yes, yes _please_ , right _there_.  A whine rose in his throat, and he resumed stroking in earnest, pushing and twisting until he had the finger in up to the second knuckle, imagined he was being stretched, that the finger was in preparation for something else, something bigger.  Pictured being stretched, being impaled on someone else’s dick--

When Alfred came, he came _hard._   A high whine stuck in Alfred's throat as his hips jerked, eyes fluttering, his fingers twitching around his dick.   Alfred hadn’t had an orgasm this intense in a very long time.  Panting, he came down from the high, pulled his hand out of his pants and slumped boneless to the floor, his coat sliding around under him.  Alfred stared, only half-seeing, at the stripe of his cum splattered on the hardwood. 

Fuck.  Holy _fuck_. 

Alfred was so utterly fucked. 


End file.
